PSOH Band Ficlets
by tigersilver
Summary: A loosely linked series of fics based on band names. The first is sappy. The second romantic. The third one is amusing. The fourth lets Leon vent. Bands: Police, U2, MCR & The Clash. All AU.
1. Chapter 1 'The Clash'

PSOH Band Ficlets: **The Clash**

*Some time ago, I wrote a series of short PSOH fics based on the names of bands. This is first one and there are others to come. They vary greatly in style, rating and so forth, and are 'older', as in I wrote them more than a year ago, so…things change. Including_ me_, as a writer.

"Get your hands off me, you cretin!"

"Hey, hey, hey! I was just trying to help you, Count D! You don't have to get so 'effing snotty about it."

"I don't require your help, Detective. I am perfectly fine."

"I don't think so, asshole. You almost fell over there – you would've smacked the floor if it weren't for me grabbing you. So, Count—what's going on that you're such a weakling all the sudden? You sick or something?"

The Count shifted in Leon's lap, feebly attempting to struggle up. He was clearly furious—and clearly not himself.

"Of course not! I am _never _ sick….merely tired, thank you. I'll be right as rain with a little rest, Detective. Now, let me go!"

"Nah. You're white as a sheet, Count. Doesn't look like you're going to do much of anything without a little help."

Leon stood up from the couch abruptly, bundling the flailing Count in his arms, settling him securely, and turned determinedly toward the Parlor door.

"Okay, where to? Where's your bedroom? I'll take you there."

"_What!_? What do you think you're doing, Detective? You are most certainly _not _going to 'take me there'! That's a private part of the Shop, I'll have you know! No visitors are allowed!"

"Jeez, Count. Get over it already. It's hardly like I'm going to get excited just from seeing your bedroom. Trust me, I've seen plenty of frilly panties in my life—or whatever it is you wear under those dresses of yours," Leon snorted. "Believe me, nothing you've got in there is going to make a damned bit of difference to me, ok? I just want to get you to bed before you pass out on me. Calm the hell down, alright?"

The Count blushed, a fiery red that stained his weary face and crept down his pale throat. Distressed, he plucked at Leon's hands, the ones that held him with so little effort, and cast his unusual eyes down at the floor, avoiding the Detective's clear gaze with all his might.

"No! Put me down, Detective! I can get there perfectly well on my own. I don't need your so-called 'help'!"

"Fine, Count," Leon answered, his voice heavy with patience. Obviously, he wasn't listening to a word the Count had to say. "Be that way. _Whatever_. Still, I'm gonna take you to your room, ok? You can do whatever you want from there."

"No!"

The Count was ready to die from sheer horror that Leon might be exposed to his most private things, his underwear and dirty clothes, used hairbrushes and damp towels --and the small silver-framed snapshot he kept on his bedside table.

"You mustn't!"

But the Detective most certainly was. He strode over to the Parlor door despite D's protests, shoving it open with one shoulder, the Count flailing in his arms, and then swung his shaggy head back and forth in amazement at the sight of the immensely long hallway that confronted him. It stretched endlessly on either side, lined with mysterious red lacquered doors, curving off into the far distance in a mind-boggling way.

"Damn it all to Hell, Count! Who knew this place was so big?" he muttered to himself, ignoring the Count's muffled squeaks of protest and peering around the elegant continuum with great professional interest.

"Alright, which one, D?" Finally, Leon remembered why he was poking around the private confines of the Shop in the first place. "Tell me and I'll dump you off there and get the fuck out of your face."

"Language!…and third to the left, Detective," the Count muttered, defeated and rather demoralized, burying his red face deeply in Leon's shoulder. He didn't dare look up, mortally afraid his eyes would reveal something other than mere exhaustion and annoyance with Leon's meddling. It had been a horribly long night, caring for an ailing and extremely ancient Beast, watching its noble spirit gradually slip away into memory. As much as he was exhausted, D was also terribly sad, for Kujo had been the last of his kind.

There'd never be another like him.

The Count had found himself wanting someone then, in the wee hours of the morning – someone to hold him tight and comfort him as he dealt with his grief. That the very person he'd stubbornly refused to admit he wanted most just three hours earlier now had the gall to pop up uninvited in his Parlor, _oblivious_ as usual, _obnoxiously obstinate_ as usual; well, _that_ was asking bit much of the Count's battered psyche to handle impassively.

_His dear detective had to go_, D resolved, _and soon_, preferably before D gave in to his baser urges and clung to him, begging for comfort of an entirely different sort. Preferably before they arrived at the inner sanctum of the Count's private quarters, dominated by a lushly canopied, king-sized silk draped bed that practically demanded intimate action.

….And, too, _before_ Leon's sharp eyes caught a glimpse of his own smiling face in that photo; clear and damning evidence of the Count's perilous fall from grace.

"This one?"

The Detective asked curiously, shifting the seemingly frail form in his arms and letting it down gently, so that the Count's body slid ever so slowly down his own bulkier one; chest to chest, thigh to thigh, every lean inch pressed against the Detective's, till the Count's slippered feet just touched the floor. D sucked in a sharp breath but stumbled, even so, for his Detective was a highly tempting tidbit for one so weak-willed—freshly showered and closely shaved, and acting such a damned perfect gentleman for once in his rude life!

"_Yes," _D bit out through clenched teeth. "Now, _go_, please, Detective. I've had more than enough 'help'. I'll get myself settled into bed."

"Sure—if you say so, Count." Leon examined him critically. "You look like shit to me, though. Are you sure you want me to leave?"

The Count visibly got hold himself and reared away, up against the door, leaning as far as physically possible from the LAPD's finest as he possibly could in that restricted space, long-fingered hands curled tightly at his sides, his eyes fixed on the middle button of Leon's flannel as though it were utterly fascinating. He was well aware he was struggling to respond normally.

Truly, D told himself, he couldn't bear it for much longer.

"I'm perfectly fine, really. You can leave, Detective," he replied, and blessed his ingrained habits of self-control. He needed every ounce, every particle.

"You sure?" The Detective was clearly worried. "You want some water or something? Help with your clothes? That thing you're wearing looks pretty damned complicated." Leon kept his large hands on D's thin shoulders nonetheless, steadying him, tormenting him.

"I can stay for a while if you want; keep an eye—" the Detective offered, running an assessing eye down at his unwilling captive with concern. "If you, uh…want me to."

The Count drew himself up to full height, whipping his carefully stayed desire into anger, his desperate longing into mere irritation.

"_No_!" he answered forcefully. "As I keep telling you, Detective, I am perfectly well – and _more_ than capable of taking care of myself! I thank you most sincerely for your kind assistance, but you may go now. Your conscience is clear, yes? You've helped the poor, unfortunate citizen in distress like a good little policeman, so just toddle along, Detective. I don't need you!"

D inched back even farther, practically melding his backbone into the door panel, plastering himself to the carved, painted wood like a limpet, eyes falling ever lower, glued now to Leon's belt buckle, and shoulders cringing away from the warmth of long fingers, the concern writ large in Leon's clear blue eyes.

"Damn!" Leon swore, "but you're _weird_ as fuck this morning, Count! Are you sure you're not sick? Want me to call a doctor?"

"No!" The Count was as close to tears of utter frustration as he ever got, and it took all he had to continue protesting. "No doctor can help me, Detective – I just need some sleep! Please leave so I may rest, Detective—don't you understand that you're in the way here? I thank you for all of your help, but—_I want you to go now_!"

Leon pulled his hands off D's thin shoulders abruptly, as if the flesh beneath had singed him, and stepped back, the worry masked now by quick temper.

"_Shit_, you pansy-ass twerp!" he snapped back, sneering nastily. "Can't you even be pleasant when someone's trying to _help _you?"

The Detective turned on his heel and stomped down the hallway to the Parlor door, so quickly he didn't notice the hand D involuntarily reached toward him.

"_Fine, _Count D," Leon told the blank face of the door before him, his voice bitter and tight. "Suit yourself! I'm out the door now, alright? _Happy_!?"

"Leon—!" Not a cry on D's part, but a breathy whisper, barely heard. More 'felt', if the slight jerk echoing through the Detective's sure stance was an indication.

The Detective paused at the exit, one tanned hand resting uneasily on the brass knob, and glanced over his shoulder briefly at the Count, who had sagged bonelessly where he still stood, backed up against his bedroom door, his lovely mask of a face now cracking slightly under the twin pressures of misery and physical exhaustion. Impartial concern filled the Detective's blue eyes again, for the Detective was a very nice man, despite all his many faults.

Leon grinned, wry and rueful, and decisively turned the doorknob.

"Look, Count—I'll call you later, ok? Bring you some sugar or something—make sure you're still alive."

_Leon. _

D winced at the sea blue shades of the policeman's fine eyes, turning his head sharply away, flinching.

Truly, he could not bear it, the Count admitted. He had not the strength to resist this man, nor the will—not in ages and certainly not now, with heat trickling through his very center and stupid words of love eternal battering against his tightly clamped lips.

"Sweet dreams, you asshole. I'll lock up behind me." The mix of amused annoyance and concern in the Detective's voice echoed back strangely down the Shop's huge Hallway, and was abruptly cut off as he pulled the door shut behind him.

Once safely closeted in his quarters, D undressed slowly, gravid with lingering anguish. It took him forever to close his tired eyes even though he was wrung dry, all his considerable inner reserves depleted. His thoughts wouldn't settle, whirling and chasing futilely after the titillating possibilities inherent in Leon's kindness, his warm concern—the 'might-have-been's' and 'what if?'s' he'd so firmly cut short. And there, on the edges of D's torment over the Detective, were the memories of a boundless love and knowledge sparkling in Kujo's depthless green gaze as his ancient spirit danced ever further into the ether.

D would miss Kujo fiercely. There would never be another of his kind, thanks to the hated humans.

…And even if his dear detective _was_ attracted, as _he _was—even if he actually _cared_, as _D_ did, it could never be. The Count had a job to do, one that wouldn't allow for things _like that_. The Detective was one of 'them' and there could be no happy ending to this tale. 'Love, hope and dreams' did _not_, by any means, rule out 'loss, despair and nightmares'—it only made the lonely walk through life all that much more bearable, even for such as he, D knew.

_No. Oh, no._

Finally, restless beyond bearing, the Count took the small silver frame from its place of honor, cradling it carefully to his bare chest, the Kodachrome face behind the glass pressed against his chilled skin in a silent, impossible kiss. He sighed, rolling to his side and curling up around the soulless rectangle, a quavering, weighty sound that would've had the wary detective on the alert immediately, had he been in the room to hear it.

_But, by the gods, if only… if only._


	2. Chapter 2 'U2'

PSOH Band Ficlets U2

Sculpted fingertips trembled in Leon's large hand, the brief touch a scarlet flare in the dim, scented atmosphere as the cake plate was passed.

Leon inhaled sharply, grabbing at the scalloped silver-gilt rim, his eyes drawn to the pale countenance opposite him, the fixed expression of utter calm. _His_ heart had jolted in his chest, speeding up, rocked by that faint, seconds-long contact.

He would bet a million dollars that the Count wasn't calm at all. He knew _he_ wasn't – and it was _mutual_, damn it! -- or he'd eat his friggin' uniform hat.

_There!_ There it was, a faint quiver at the edges of the Count's mouth, the sultry pout that he didn't hide quite fast enough. D's dark lashes swept down in what Leon prayed was shy embarrassment, troubled eyes apparently seeing only the rim of his cup.

His nipples went hard as pebbles under the silk, though, and Leon inhaled again, sucking air through his nose in the concerted effort to stay seated, to restrain himself.

Once again, the detective contemplated pushing the Count just a bit more; baiting the imperturbable Chinese man into saying something rash, some unrehearsed – something from the heart.

But he shouldn't. This was so exquisitely fragile, this silent understanding between them. Words might destroy it and Leon certainly didn't want that. He had the habit of breaking stuff that wasn't steel-clad and solid; 'clumsy oaf', the Count called him, sometimes.

The Count was right.

And it was good the way just the way it was, Leon figured, at least for a little while longer. Satisfying for what he guessed was his soul, even if his body craved a little more raw honesty. But, hey, there was plenty of time yet for confessions and physicality – he was still pretty wrapped up himself in the startling discovery of the emotion they shared.

_Seemed _to share—if his detective's keen senses weren't deceiving him. But Leon didn't think they were, really.

Yeah, sex could wait, Leon decided, though he was kind of surprised at himself for even thinking that.

So he _said_ nothing important, even as he remarked on the niceness of the weather. The Count said nothing in return, even as he remarked back. They sipped tea companionably and Leon bitched about the sweetness of the carrot cake's cream cheese icing and they both breathed the same spicy-scented air, together in the same richly appointed room, at the same time and place and moment….and were more than happy to simply be there, with each other.


	3. Chapter 3 'The Police'

**PSOH Band Ficlets 'The Police'**

_Goddamn it! All to fucking hell! _

_Why'd he have to go and pick the one flower shop in all of L.A. with a friggin' robber in it? _

_Why'd he have to be totally unarmed, with no 'effin' back up? _

It pissed the LAPD detective off royally, 'cause all he wanted was roses, red ones with long stems, for a certain special someone who'd be very surprised.

_Why'd he have to go and get all fucking stupid romantic all the sudden? Look at the trouble it caused!_

Being Leon Orcot, he dealt with the situation, an impatient twist of the arm bringing the startled gunman swinging around, off-balance; a knee and a fist to the right places dropping the ski-masked offender hard to his knees on the tiled floor in front of the terrified florist ducking behind the shop counter, completely winded and gasping for breath like a fish out of water.

Annoyed and irate, and by this time feeling really thoroughly abused by the Fates or God or whoever the fuck it was that enjoyed screwing with his life, the off-duty detective scornfully kicked the assailant's gun under the cold case and deftly forced the erstwhile 148's arms behind his back in an excruciatingly painful pretzel shape, a move expressly designed to keep the intruder solidly on the ground, helpless.

Impatient and now bordering on an actual temper tantrum, Leon turned sharply to the mild-mannered, balding man in the apron, the cringing shopkeeper who still clutched his shears and some bedraggled fern fronds in one shaking hand, dumbfounded.

"Call the goddamned police station, will you?" Leon barked at the man. "What the hell are you doing just standing around for, anyway? Get your goddamn butt in gear! I'm already late enough as it is, got it? And I want a dozen – no, _two_ dozen – of those red roses in that case over there when you're done calling in this fucking fiasco, tied up nice and pretty with a fucking velvet ribbon or something, _stat_!"

"S-sir! R-right away, sir! Th-thank you--!"

Gabbling, the florist bolted for the back room where the shop's telephone resided, mumbling wildly under his breath at the surly policeman's request.

"Hey!" Leon shouted from the front room. "Tell 'em Orcot says he's gotta 10-15, 211 and to get their lazy, goddamn asses _down_ _here right now_! I'm not going to wait around much longer, you hear me?! I'm already late and the Count's gonna kill me, so _move it_!"

_What a terribly rude man!_ The normally even-tempered florist huffed in indignation, dialing 911with shaking fingers. _Weren't policemen supposed to be more polite to the victims of crimes? _

_Oh—but the roses must be for his sweetheart_, the florist thought, now trembling with delayed reaction and cradling the phone's receiver, having faithfully reported to the dispatcher the strange numbers the cop had given him and his shop's address.

_He must love her an awful lot, to buy her long-stems on February 14__th__, the most expensive day of the year! Especially when it looked like he couldn't even afford to take her to dinner, much less invest in a hundred dollars worth of roses!_

_Well, all right then. That was different—and he owed this cop a big favor. So, fine. This was a public service, then. He'd give the undercover police officer all the long stem red roses he wanted, free of charge – _three_ dozen at least!— in his best Valentine's Day pink crystal vase, including even the complimentary box of Godiva chocolate truffles—_

In the distance, sirens wailed and Leon kicked the erstwhile robber lightly in the ribs, just for good measure. He _was _pissed, damn it, and the Count would be even fucking pissier, standing around waiting for him to get there and probably sulking. Of all the fucking flower shops in L.A., why the_ hell_ did he hafta' walk into this one? Man—somebody up there was out to get him!

_-- but only because the blonde gorilla taking up half his shop front was now a hero—at least to him, _the florist decided, flinging flowers and baby's breath and an assortment of maidenhair ferns into a pseudo-Baccarat vase._ Yes, indeed! The stupid rude man _had _saved him, after all. He owed him. _

"Hurry the fuck up, asshole!" Leon bitched at the still shaky florist, and finished tightly trussing up the unfortunate disarmed gunman with the green, waxy twine he'd liberated from the counter. "I haven't got all fucking day here!"

…_.Even if the undercover cop was a _rude _S.O.B! _


	4. Chapter 4 'My Chemical Romance'

PSOH Band Ficlets 'My Chemical Romance'

_Those hormone thingies – what were they called? _

_Paramores?...No….Something to do with elves—gnomes! Paragnomes, maybe? Ferrognomes? _

A brief vision of the Seven Dwarves, all wielding little iron hammers and sporting little red capes, nearly derailed Leon completely, till the word he wanted came to him in flash.

_Pheromones! That was it! That was the _real_ problem! _

That goddamned pansy prick was _marking_ him, leaving his friggin' sweet scent all over the place – in his clothes, his car, his hair – Christ! Even his fucking apartment smelled like D!

Leon toasted himself for finally getting it, chortling maniacally, then downed the remainder of his third Heineken of the hour in one great gulp and slammed the pint mug back on the bar for refill.

He stopped laughing abruptly, for now that he remembered the term, he was starting to remember more of what it actually _meant_.

…And it sure looked like it meant he was a fucking _doomed _motherfucker, 'cause pheromones didn't just _go away_!

Watching from a step or down the other side of the polished mahogany bar, the bartender shook his sleek blonde head at his customer's antics, but he served Leon anyway, knowing he was cop, figuring he must be drinking for relief.

The dude was a good customer, the bartender knew - almost a regular these last few months. He always tipped well and he never got into fights; he was handsome, well put together – just the bartender's type, in fact. The bartender's name was Steve, and he wasn't a bad guy, either.

The next pint was sipped, for even Leon realized he was getting a little muzzy as the night wore on.

Losing his normal state of amped-up, caffeine-fueled clear-headedness was _bad, _at least for right now. He knew that 'cause he coulda sworn the bartender had just winked at him – and not in a 'good buddy' kind of way!

Leon figured it was time to slow down…and watch his back. The last thing he needed right now was some guy hitting on him. It happened just enough to make him a little uncomfortable—not that he had any problem with that kind of thing. It was just…well, he wasn't used to thinking of himself as attractive to other guys. Weirded him out, kinda.

'Sides , he needed to think about this whole phero-thingie real hard, 'cause he wasn't sure how much of it was deliberate on the Count's part.

Did the guy _know_ how he affected normal people—like Leon? Did he realize? Maybe it was a stock-in-trade trick, something he did all the time to make the clients more…well, 'willing' might be a good way to describe it. Suggestible.

…..Or maybe he just smelled really good only to people named Orcot. After all, Leon's little brother adored the asshole and couldn't stand being separated from him.

Anyway, Leon was sure it wasn't the incense of the Shop; that scent he knew well by now and didn't mind at all anymore, used to it after months and months of going there and spending time with the Count and Chris and the Pets. It was kinda comforting, the smell, like his Mom's kitchen used to be, only more exotic.

_That_ wasn't the problem, then, Leon decided, nodding at his pint sagely. And it wasn't the odor itself, either. He could only barely smell it, but it still smelled good, _too_ good….well, anyway, it was more the _effect_ that was the problem.

The truth was….the truth was he couldn't keep it up, not literally, not when it came right down to it. _That_ was the problem. Wait—it wasn't that he couldn't keep it up—no! Man! He was a dude! It was that he couldn't keep it _down_! Little Leon was 'effing always ready anymore—bright and perky every single time he smelled that smell—and Leon didn't just have the time or inclination to walk around with a permanent boner! He had a job to do; had to get up in the morning, make the paycheck. Being hot-and-bothered every time he caught a whiff of his dirty laundry or his car or his own damned skin was getting to him. God—it was like the stuff was imprinted on him; he couldn't get away from it, no matter how much he showered or sprayed that spritzy air freshener stuff the Count gave him or anything!

It didn't help that the Count cleaned his apartment every so often, either. Then it went from a nagging awareness that he was turned on to a full-out case of blue-balling jitters, sending Leon running out to the neighborhood bar just to escape.

Hell, he was damned sick and tired of being _excited_ all the time! The only place he got any kind of relief was in the station house or out on a case, and that was only when his T-shirt hadn't just been washed and pressed by that damned D!

Leon sighed pitifully into his beer, sending the remnants of the froth into little whorls of scum. He grabbed a handful of peanuts and started shelling them, one by one, wishing he could crack open his head just as easily and rip his misbehaving olfactory senses right out.

He hadn't used to drink this much, back before the Pet Shop.

And figuring out what it was – well, what it could be, 'cause he wasn't a scientist or anything – that was great, yeah, but it hadn't actually _helped_. So he knew now – so what? It wasn't like he could expect it to stop just 'cause he knew what to call it.

He could just go back to ignoring it again, or maybe see if he could come up with a head cold or allergies or something – anything to block his nose. 'Course, the first idea hadn't worked real well so far—hard to ignore your own dick, right?—and as for the second, he never got sick, _never_. Shot up, riddled with bullet holes, maybe, but not _sick_.

What to do? Leon wondered, sending a grubby hand through his blond hair. The Count was going to notice sooner or later that Leon was a little…uncomfortable…around him. If he ever figured out exactly what was going on with Little Leon, it would be _bad_. And Leon couldn't just ask the Count to change his deodorant or something – it wasn't any near as simple as that.

He couldn't stop going there, either. The Pet Shop was a part of Leon's life, now. Chris was there, for one thing, and, well, Leon _liked_ going there. He hadn't before, but he did now. The Shop was great; warm and comfortable and all that good stuff, just the perfect place to unwind after a hard day of chasing asshole criminals. And D was great, too, letting him drop by all the time without any warning, feeding him real food and patching him up, watching over his kid bro' like a hawk over a chick.

If Leon thought about it _that way_, then maybe this was just like the price he had to pay to get in – a cover charge for entry to the Shop, sorta. Plus, he knew for sure he wasn't the only one who reacted to D like this. Jill, for instance. She really dug the Count, totally gaga over him, so she must feel it too.

And everybody else he knew that had met the Count. They all loved the guy. Well…not 'loved' exactly, but they did think D was really charming.

Not so strange if he did, too, right?

"Last call, sir. Do you want another? It's on the house." This time the bartender got a lot closer, nodding meaningfully with his blonde head at this intimate angle that sent a red flare up in the very back of Leon's reptilian cortex. "And—you know, I've been meaning to ask you this. What kind of cologne do you wear, sir? _It smells so good._"

The young man licked his lips hungrily, eyeing Leon's broad shoulders under the red-and-black flannel, his trim waist and what little the bartender could see of tight denim wrapped around an ass he knew was very fine indeed. The silent message behind that heated gaze sent a chill right up Leon's backbone and all his 'gaydar' senses spun into _High Alert _status.

_Oh, shit! Not good-not good-not good! _

Leon scrambled for a workable excuse, something that wouldn't hurt the guy's feelings but would still get him to go away. He didn't have time for this crap – not _now_, when he had his own problems to deal with. The fucking last thing he needed when he was walking around with a hard-on for one man's smell was to have another one sniffing at his own heels like he'd rubbed raw liver on 'em! _Fuck_!

"Ah…um, _no_!" Leon babbled, clutching his pint glass defensively. "No, _thanks_! I'm good – just finishing up. Got get back home to the wife, you know? She's waiting!"

"Oh," Steve the Bartender made a moue of disgust. "Wife, huh? What a pity. Well…if you're ever interested, sir, anytime is good, ok? I'll be here. Just, uh, let me know," he sighed, and shuffled off to urge the drunk at the bend to drink up.

Leon heaved a huff of relief and then briefly frowned over the bartender's remark about his non-existent cologne. Did he really smell that good? Shit! Stupid Count and his damned pheromones! Now Leon was a _carrier_—like it was typhoid or something!

_Anyway_, getting back on track, if he thought about this whole problem like _that_—in terms of paying tolls or dues or whatever—then it wasn't so damned bad. He could deal, since it obviously wasn't anything weird he was going through – justa natural chemical reaction of some kind, something he couldn't _help _feeling. Just like reacting to the smell of blueberry muffins or fresh-brewed coffee; nothing _more_. They did say the sense of smell was the strongest, right? First to come, last to leave? Yeah. Right.

No way could it be _anything else_…..

Nothing else, nope. Leon was sure of _that_, at least. Yup. _Positive_.

_Absolutely. _


End file.
